"They haven't found the body?"
"We will. The Big Black's not a deep or fast river."
"How did you know about the VW transmission?"
"Leo called Jimmy Williams and told him what he was planning. Williams got bold of Ian McIntire, and they drove down from Jackson to stop him.
When they got to his house, Leo was gone. They found his truck where he said it would be and called us."
"Why didn't they call you right off? It's nearly an hour's drive from Jackson to Port Gibson."
"They said they didn't think he'd do it.
That he was just feeling down-he got that way sometimes, I can attest to that-and it would have embarrassed him if they'd called anybody."
"Was there a note?"
"We didn't find one."
"Is it possible it wasn't suicide?"
"Anything's possible, but Ian and Jimmy wouldn't have hurt him. The three of them have been friends since they were little kids.
Their mothers were friends. The two living-Mrs. Williams and Mrs. McIntire-still are. I'm betting on suicide. Leo had an ongoing fight with depression. He never talked about it, and odds are it never even crossed his mind to get treatment. That's a danger with being a man of God, so to speak. If you don't watch it, you can start to take things personal. Shouldering crosses when there are perfectly good God-given forklifts sitting around to take some of the burden." Davidson continued dragging the weed around in enticing patterns, but he was only amusing himself. Piedmont had lost interest. Taco slept, his breathing even and regular. "Stone's Throw from Hurtin' " played on the boom box. Its usually pleasant strains grated on Anna's ears.
Airconditioned drafts fell clammily across her neck and shoulders, and she longed to shut the damn thing off and open the windows to the healing fragrance of the night. Out of deference to Fullerton's death and Paul Davidson's mood, she remained still.
Finally stiff with cold or memories, Paul struggled into a sitting position. For the first time since Anna'd met him, he looked his age. "I guess this was purely a social call, after all," he admitted.
"Leo's got nothing to do with anything except you'd met him and I needed to talk about him."
"Anytime." Impulsively, Anna put her hand on his knee. Before she could feel silly or snatch it back, he'd taken it in both his own.
She couldn't tell if the warmth she felt was from his skin or within her own. Slowly, as if it were an object of great value, he turned it palm up and traced what felt like an A on her palm. The phantom letter tingled in various portions of Anna's anatomy Davidson laughed. "Now I'm feeling guilty because I used poor Leo's death to pay you a visit. If it hadn't been for the celibacy thing, I'd have made a heck of a Catholic priest. Do you want me to stay?" Startled by the abrupt change in the weather, Anna said nothing for a bit. The South. Nothing was as simple as it seemed. Beneath everything were seventeen more layers of everything else. "Do you mean am I scared to stay here by myself?" she asked carefully.
Davidson laughed again. Anna was growing to like the sound. "That's what I did mean. Freud would sure have a field day with me.
But yes, after the break-in, if you wanted me to, I could sleep on your couch."
"No you couldn't," Anna said. The couch was Victorian, designed to ensure no one ever lost their virginity or even enjoyed a moment's comfort in its uptight embrace.
She walked the sheriff to his car. The driver's door between them, solid as a bundling board, he leaned over the top and kissed her.
The kiss was quick, light and not in the least brotherly Though Anna stood her ground in true John Wayne fashion, she noted a wateriness in the vicinity of her knees and a faint humming in her ears different from the drone of the insects.
Anna was having fantasies. She wanted to buy a summer dress, new underwear, perfume, lipstick. The glossy magazines she routinely ignored in airport newsstands and hair salons had had a cumulative subliminal impact. If the phenomenon was progressive, she'd soon begin to worry about cellulite or invest in a Wonderbra.
It wasn't that Anna eschewed the feminine artifices on ethical, moral, religious or political grounds. They had simply been nonproductive in her chosen profession. Used injudiciously, they became counterproductive. When arresting a drunk, one didn't want one's come-hither scent or kiss-me red lips to distract him from the respectful business of being cuffed and booked.
What Anna often forgot was there was such a thing as "off duty." The night before, with Paul, she had been genuinely off duty for a few moments. She had every intention of being seriously off duty again in the not-so-distant future. For the next eight hours, however, she had to drag her mind out of the lingerie department.
Turning off the Trace into the Port Gibson Ranger Station Anna noted several cars, one a patrol car. She hoped it was Barth. Randy Thigpen would be continuing his black-cloud persona, and Anna wasn't in the mood to have her psychological parade rained on. Then she remembered Randy was on four to midnight, and it was just noon. She was off the book for a few hours.
George Wentworth was tucked in his office, his broad shoulders bowed over papers piled neatly on his desk.
Anna poked her head in his office. "Hey," she said, bubbling over with good cheer. "Any new offers for the next Air McWhatsis?" George raised his bead in the slow and unhappy way a bull might when it was deciding whether or not to charge. The whites of his eyes, usually a cool, almost minty white, were yellowed, the tiny blood vessels ruptured from stress, lack of sleep or booze. For an instant Anna thought he hadn't heard her or, at any rate, was not going to answer her. She was deciding whether to repeat the question or slink away to savor the better part of valor, when he spoke. "Lockley's dropped out of college." His voice rolled the words flat, squeezing everything from them but the dull residue of disappointment.
"Shit," Anna said sympathetically. "That sucks."
"His mom's all tore up." Anna capped off her good cheer and came into his office to lean companionably against the bookcase in the event he wanted to talk.
"What happened?"
"We don't know. He won't talk to us. Won't talk to me." George's throat closed on him, and be stared out the window till he'd mastered it.
"Everything seemed to be going along Just fine, then he changed."
"Drugs, you think?"
"That's the first guess everybody makes. But Lock's never done drugs.
He's too smart for that." Anna said nothing. Even smart kids got duped into drugs. The really smart ones figured they could handle it, as if intellect could rule chemical dependence. George leaned back, stared out the window at the buggy grill on Anna's patrol car. His left hand twitched among the papers as if it continued working on its own.
"We thought maybe steroids," George said finally. "You know, the mood swings and all. We asked Lock about it and he said no." He looked up at Anna. "You'd have believed him. He didn't say it like he even cared we'd thought it. Just this quiet 'no like it didn't matter." Clinical depression. Anna'd been there. Too deep to care, too sick to pray. An ugly thought wormed through the layers of her mind.
"How long?" she asked. "A week. Maybe less. It just doesn't make sense." It did to Anna. Danni Posey had gone to Alcorn with Heather and Shandra.
Lea to a football game, and after the game they'd gone to a college football party. Heather and Shandra. Lea thought Danni had met a boy there. Danni's brother, Mike, thought she had a black sweetheart.
Lockley Wentworth, a handsome, charming, black football hero, goes into an emotional tailspin immediately after Danni Posey is found beaten to death.
If George Wentworth's son was not Danni Posey's lover, that was way too many coincidences for such a sparsely populated state. "Did he get any bad news? Football teams or grades or a health problem?" Anna asked.
"That's just it," George said, and the frustration loaded his voice till it broke in anger. "Nothing like that. Nothing. He would have told us.
His mother and I've been over it and over it. There's nothing he couldn'
t tell us. Even if he'd got a girl in trouble, something like that, he'd of told us." Unless the girl was underage, white and dead.
Anna wanted to talk with the Wentworth boy in the worst waywithout his parents' permission. George struck her as the kind of man who would lay down his life for his son. Admirable in a father. A pain in the butt in a murder investigation. "How old is Lock?" Anna asked, suppressing the knowledge she was being opportunistic and hard-hearted. "Just twenty.
Hardly more than a boy. Too young to throw his life away.
Not a juvenile. Fair game. To assuage her conscience, Anna said: "My sister's a psychiatrist, and from what she's told me over the years, I'd guess Lock's suffering from severe depression. He's treatable. Don't let him cut off his options yet. When he comes out of it, he can pick up where he left off." Unless he was in the state penitentiary on a murder charge.
George accepted her crumb of hope for the crumb it was and returned doggedly to his paperwork.
Barth was likewise employed, head down over a pile of speeding citations, the top one so dimpled and smeared from rainwater as to be almost illegible. Either he'd decided to snub Anna or was distracted by his work. He didn't look up or acknowledge her greeting. Anna was happy to shut herself in her office and think.
Accepting the theory that Lock Wentworth was Danni's secret lover did not mean accepting him as the murderer. His sudden and acute depression indicated intense emotion. It was possible he'd killed the girl in a fit of rage or jealousy and was eaten up by guilt. It was equally possible he was doing Romeo to her Juliet. In which case his life was at grave risk. Depression could be deadly. He could be suffering guilt because he wasn't with her, couldn't protect her.
Shame because the relationship had been clandestine. The Poseys weren't going to be the only parents outraged. Anna doubted George Wentworth would be pleased to see his son risk his hopes and ambitions by bringing upon himself the kind of trouble a sixteen-year-old white girl carried with her. Lockley Wentworth might be scared out of his wits: his girlfriend was murdered, her brother frothing at the mouth to pin it on the black boyfriend, the body draped in a sheet reminiscent of the KKK, a symbol designed to frighten and intimidate. And who could he tell? His girlfriend was dead, and he couldn't even cry about it. At least not where he'd have to explain it to anybody. If he had killed her, it was a reasonable assumption that it wasn't premeditated. If he hadn't, he was bottling a poisonous mix of emotions and stoppering it with terrible anger at whoever had destroyed Danni and at himself for not being there to save her.
Anna flipped through her Rolodex till she found the number for the Claiborne County Sheriff's Office. The kiss she'd enjoyed so much the night before turned sour on her lips. Business with pleasure, like wine with whiskey, was bound to leave one with a hangover. This hangover took the form of second guesses. Was she calling him because she needed to share the new theory-it was not yet evidence or even information, merely an equation she thought she'd seen in the welter of a wounded father's words-or was she using it as an excuse to call?
If so, was it transparent? This second adolescence rattling between her ears, she knew when Davidson answered she'd be all icy business. Then he'd wonder what he did wrong. Would he shy away?
Just never "Oh, shut up," Anna growled and punched the numbers. To her relief, the sheriff was out. She would have a chance to go through the mental gyrations of a schoolgirl with a crush all over again at around three-thirty when he was due back.
"Have him call me," she snapped, then, to make amends to the innocent deputy who'd answered the phone, she said the first thing that popped into her head. "Sorry. I just dropped the dictionary on my foot." Whether or not it made any more sense to him than it did to her, he sounded placated.
For half a minute she stood where she was, staring down at the smooth wood of the built-in desk and absently pushing the antique belt buckle around the way a tot might push a Matchbox car.
Colliding worlds of lust and law enforcement, personal and professional, pubescent and menopausal had left her mind a blank, wiped clean." Ah," Anna said as time, place and task flooded back into her reality.
"Barth!" The ranger did not appear and, rather than shout again as her grandmother assured her only fishwives were allowed to do with impunity, Anna stepped out of her office into the long dingy room that housed the coffeepot and the desks of her field rangers.
Barth sat as he had before. Back to her office, head sunk between thick shoulders, he gazed down at the same pile of traffic citations. Assuming he'd not heard her call, Anna started to repeat his name, then she noticed he sat in front of exactly the same pile of citations. The ticket defaced with rainwater was on top of the pile, partly hidden by the edge of Barth's meaty band, right where it bad been when Anna'd first come in. Between his thumb and forefinger, as before, was a government issue pen. Either the man was dead, asleep or caught in a time warp. "Barth!" He didn't start like a man caught napping. He began to stir slowly, as if her voice reached him through a fog faintly With the ponderous movement of the very old or those in pain, he turned his head to look at her. Evidently, there had been a time warp. Anna resisted the urge to check the wall calendar to see if years instead of minutes had elapsed from when she'd first stepped into her office to call Paul till she'd stepped out again to talk with Barth.
Bartholomew Dinkin was close to forty but retained a certain youthfulness. The years had touched him only lightly till today.
This noon it looked as if Father Time had clog-danced on his face. His cheeks were dragged down, and red rimmed his lower lids. An ashen hue dulled the skin around his mouth. Alarming as these symptoms might be, the most disturbing lay on the desk in front of him: an untouched bag of Cbectos. "What's with this office today?" Anna said, tired of other people's problems. "George is in a funk. You've gone catatonic. Is it the water around here? What?" His baleful gaze rested heavily on her face, In the bleak depths of Barth's translucent eyes, Anna saw no accusation, no attempt to punisb or inflict blame-the customary manipulations of the publicly bereft-but sadness so dead it looked like hatred turned inward.
Anna had seen it once before, at Carlsbad Caverns, in the eyes of a woman who'd accidentally killed her sister in a climbing accident. "I guess there is something in the water," she said more kindly.
Uninvited, she crossed the small space to lean a hip against the end of his desk. "Do you need to take the rest of the day off or anything?
You're looking a little under the weather."
"I don't want time off," he said too quickly, and Anna knew he was fighting some bitter memory. Saying nothing, she leaned, swung her foot.
Then a partial answer came to her. "You were friends with Leo Fullerton," she said. "I was sorry to hear." Barth looked away but not before Anna saw what she could have sworn was shame in his face. Shame or guilt. Sadness was there, the sorrow of losing a friend, but the emotion wasn't pure. An energy underlay it that belied mere sorrow.
"What?" she demanded.
"He was my pastor," Barth replied. Anger flashed, making his eyes suddenly dangerous. Something wasn't jibing, but Anna chose not to pursue it. "What are you messing with?" Barth asked, heading off a line of inquiry she'd already abandoned.
Without realizing it, Anna'd carried the Civil War relic she'd been playing with out of the office and continued to fiddle with it while they talked.
"I found it on the Old Trace," she said, and handed him the buckle.
Placed on his wide palm it looked no bigger than a doll accessory.
Barth took a magnifying glass out of his desk and studied the brass rectangle carefully. "It's in good condition," he said, "Hardly even scratched. Union. Issued near the end of the war." Flipping it over delicately with the tip of a finger, he scrutinized the back.
"Here's an interesting thing. Look here." He handed the buckle and the glass to Anna. She looked where he pointed. The inscription "G.G.35th" had been scratched on neatly with a sharp instrument. "My guess could be General Grant's ar
my thirty-fifth division. Either the supply sergeant scratched it on or the soldier himself did it." Anna was impressed. "Are you a collector?" Barth shook his head. "When I worked in Tupelo, I did a little curatorial stuff. Went to some training and the like."
"Is it worth anything?" Anna asked. "It won't be if you keep on messing around with it. You'll scratch it all up. Besides, it's not yours." I know that," Anna said, slightly miffed. Barth took it back and studied it again. "Historically, it would have been of some interest, but since you moved it that's pretty well shot." Anna took the hit quietly. Barth was right. A relic, out of context, lost much of the information it might have been able to impart to archeologists and historians. "These aren't that uncommon. I'm not up on my artifacts, but this might get you five, six hundred dollars or thereabouts." Less than a third of what Jimmy Williams, in his persona of Captain Williams of the Avengers, had offered for it. She told Barth.
"Lemme look." Barth bent over the object. "This on the front is a state seal, the state where the soldier was from. That may make this a more important find. Who's this Jimmy Williams?"
Nevada Barr - Anna Pigeon 08 - Deep South Page 25
